Protector
by Jessahme Wren
Summary: After a year apart, Red and Lizzie reunite in an unexpected way. Post 1x06. Updated: Chapter 7
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not mine; I own nothing.**

**A/N: I am overwhelmed by all of the follows/favorites/reviews. Glad to know there are so many of us who don't mind a little H/C now and again. I wrote this purely for myself, but I'm glad to share. **

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"Drop it! I said drop it now!"

The man only sneered and tightened his grip around the young girl's neck. He and his small hostage blocked the only door, and Liz was alone. In the perp's arms, the young child began to whimper.

Liz slipped easily from agent to profiler, strategizing in a moment what a better approach would be. Push him too far, she knew, and no one would walk out of there alive.

"You don't want to do this. Why don't you let her go," she said carefully.

She studied him, profiled him in an instant. Mid 30's, low-level man in the criminal world. The way he held the gun was overanxious and aggressive, as if he had something to prove. No visible tattoos on his sleeveless arms, so he hadn't done any real time in prison. Maybe that's why he was doing this? To move up the chain? She looked into his eyes. There was anger there, yes, but also fear, and fear was dangerous.

She inched a step toward him. "Back off bitch!" the man spat. "I'll kill this girl right here I swear I will." His arm tightened around the little girl's neck as if to prove a point.

Liz backed up. "Ok," she said calmly. Liz looked at the little girl he held. Tears had blistered her face and her blond hair was matted. She'd come into the store for something to drink, that was all.

Only minutes prior, Liz's instincts had kicked in when she saw the man in the security mirrors near the back of the store. He looked shifty, she thought at the time, but attributed his behavior to drugs or mental illness and not bad intent. Liz was tired, having worked until well after quitting time, and had popped into this Stop-n-Go for a half gallon of milk before heading home. She and Tom often opted for cereal in lieu of supper when she got home late, and they'd been out of milk for two days.

She couldn't have been more wrong. In what seemed like seconds, the man had pulled a snubnosed revolver from his heavy coat and shot the man behind the register before Liz had any time to react. He was stuffing bills into his pockets when the little girl at the drink case began to scream. Then, he'd spotted Liz.

Liz didn't know if the little girl had parents outside who might have called the cops or if she had walked to the store alone from a nearby residence, but it was evident that no one else was there. The parking lot was empty, and she doubted the clerk had time to press the button under the counter signaling the cops. So far her furtive glances out the window rendered nothing in the form of backup, a frightening realization.

Liz's previous hunger and exhaustion was now fueled with purposeful adrenaline. It sharpened her focus.

She decided to take a different approach. "Listen," she said softly, closely watching the man's face. "Just drop the gun and let her go." Liz could hear her heart beating as she awaited a response. When he said nothing, she added, "A hostage will add about twenty years to your sentence; you don't want that."

Something registered in the man's face, finally, and he seemed to consider what she said, but only for a moment. She noticed then something that she had missed entirely in her earlier profile. He was sick. His eyes were dark and sunken, and he had a slick sheen of sweat across his forehead. His color was ashen and he was underweight.

Add desperation to the fear, she thought darkly.

Suddenly something flashed across the man's face, something primal. Something lethal. It was textbook fight-or-flight. A second later, Liz heard what had set it off. A police siren, but it was blocks away.

In a moment, she saw him raise the gun. The little girl's eyes opened wide in fear and she was screaming, although Liz heard her as if hearing from another room. Almost in slow motion, she saw the little girl fall as he released her. She fired three rounds into the man, hitting him once, twice. The third bullet hit the door, shattering the glass behind him. Why had she missed, she thought absently. And then she realized that her aim was off because she too was falling. Liz's legs crumpled under her; her right leg twisted at an odd angle. A bloom of pain lit up her vision and then faded to black.

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	2. Chapter 2

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Red had little time, he knew. After nearly a year of watching Lizzie only from a distance, this was not the ideal reunion he had contemplated. None of that mattered; hearing the gunshots was enough cause for him to intervene. He slammed his shoulder into the service door at the back of the store until it flew open and made his way cautiously through the stockroom. He did so carefully, unsure of the situation and not wanting to put Lizzie into danger. He heard some light scuffling, and somewhere a lonely siren wailed. He had precious little time, to be sure.

He made his way past the little security office of the store, the black and white surveillance camera monitors vacillating between rear, corner, and storefront views of the convenience store in cold flashes through the window. A stark black and white image caught his eye, flickering, static-filled and foreboding. He caught his breath as he stared into the monitor. There in the frame, a man behind the counter bled out onto the dirty tile. Another man in the doorway appeared equally dead. And finally Lizzie, _his _Lizzie, collapsed on the floor, a gun by her hand. Bleeding.

His heart stopped beating then. His heart stopped beating but he still ran, was still able to get blood to his muscles to fuel his legs. It wasn't fast enough. Nothing he did would be enough until he was at her side.

In less than a minute he was at the front of the store. Lizzie was lying on the floor near the stockroom entrance. He knelt beside her. "Lizzie?" he inquired quietly. Red felt the cold fingers of panic close around his throat. "Lizzie." His tone grew louder. His hands explored her body expertly, handily checking pulse, respiration. He found the gunshot wound. She'd been shot in the upper thigh and blood loss was substantial. Instinctively, he applied pressure to the bleeding wound. Lizzie moaned but did not stir. For the first time since she'd told him to go to hell over a year ago, he felt tears sting his eyes. "Lizzie, just hold on," Red said. He realized he was pleading. He didn't care. He pressed his fingers into the taut softness under her jaw line, searching for the faint thump of her heart. Red Reddington would beg to keep Lizzie alive. He would also gladly take her place.

The sirens were getting closer, but they weren't close enough. Liz needed an ambulance _now_, and Red knew it. He took off his vest and folded it hastily over the wound. He stripped off his belt and pulled it tight around the bleeding. Her breathing was shallow and she felt cold. She was going into shock, Red realized. Without thinking, he pocketed her firearm nearby and scooped her up. She felt so fragile in his arms, like a bird with a broken wing. He held her close to him, willing her to live. Red made their way through the back of the store and out into the night.

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	3. Chapter 3

The first sound Liz heard was the whistling of a kettle. She had not yet opened her eyes. She had listened to the pressure in the kettle build from a low sloshy rumble to the gentle whistle of release. Nothing like the comforting sound of a kettle when you're lying in bed, she thought mildly. She had not yet considered where she was or why she didn't care.

Her blissful unawareness was momentarily disturbed by a presence at her side. She was still too asleep to care much beyond that. The presence moved closer, and then she felt a hand on her leg.

Liz was thoroughly awake now. Her eyes flew open, and at the same time her hand flew out to stop the assault. She was woozy, but she grabbed the wrist belonging to that hand and tried to wrench it away. The assailant grabbed her other arm in a defensive maneuver, and then there was a peculiar sound (soft laughter?). A man, she surmised. She twisted away from him and tried to get up, but her injury quickly anchored her. The heavy weight of her injured leg was shocking, followed briefly by a flash of pain. She tottered slightly on her feet and the room spun. "Now now Lizzie, not too quickly," he chided softly, "You've been very sick." Warm, firm hands held her shoulders, steadying her. She looked up in confusion and disbelief.

"Red? Red what-"

She heard the kettle screaming now, roaring in her ears. The room tilted. Her body sagged, but she never hit the floor.

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When Liz awoke again, Red was at her side. She knew he'd been waiting for her to awake, or maybe he was just watching her sleep.

"Lizzie, you were shot. Do you remember that?" He looked at her in that quizzical way of his. She nodded her head. "In the Stop-n-Go," she replied steadily. The pieces were coming together, but details were ephemeral. "Mm hmm," he replied coaxingly. Red was looking at her with such open tenderness that it made her feel uncomfortable. Then, Liz suddenly remembered.

"The girl!" Her body tensed. "Oh, God." She felt dazed. A feeling of sick dread uncoiled in her stomach, and she began to cry. Red smoothed a tendril of her hair on the pillow and then quickly withdrew his hand. "Shh..." he said soothingly, "She's fine. The little girl is fine. You saved her life."

"I have to -" She moved to sit, but Red gently pushed her back down again.

"You have to rest," he finished. "You have a fever, Lizzie. Your leg is infected, but I am treating it. Can I get you anything?"

"I have to call Tom," she said weakly. He didn't answer, only studied her face. He touched one of her tears with the tip of his finger. It disappeared with the contact.

"Where am I?"

"With me." He smiled, momentarily satisfied by his glib response. "At my cabin in the mountains, Lizzie, and that's all you need to know." He spoke with the tone he often reserved for her-matter-of-factly and with gentle authority.

Her mouth was dry, and he seemed to have read her mind as he held the cool glass of water to her lips. "Why do I feel this way," she said weakly. Her head was pounding.

"It's the Demerol, mostly. You've been in a lot of pain and I've kept you comfortable." She looked at him warily. _Or compliant_, she thought to herself. She wondered absently where her firearm was. He cocked his head slightly, noticing her apparent discomfort. "Do you need some?"

She frowned, closing her eyes. "That shit is nasty," she intoned drowsily, "but also wonderful." He laughed heartily at that. He didn't think he'd ever heard Lizzie swear and he found it delightful. A moment or two later her breathing became slow and regular. He smoothed the hair away from her forehead and pulled the covers up. She looked so at peace; he wished she could feel that way forever. He sat a few minutes longer, watching her chest rise and fall before leaving her to rest.

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	4. Chapter 4

"Hold still."

She complied, albeit painfully. It had been several days since she'd had any Demerol, and her discomfort was still more potent than she would admit to Red. Irrationally, she did not want to appear weak. She was forced to trust him, which she hated. Liz hated being forced to do anything, but now her recovery depended entirely on him. For most of her adult life she had prided herself on never really needing anyone, least of all trusting them. Red apparently had no such problem when it came to her. On the morning of the first day she hadn't needed strong pain medicine, Liz awoke to find her firearm in its holster on the nightstand near her bed.

According to Red, they'd been at the cabin nearly two weeks. She understood why he had not taken her to a hospital, why he couldn't. There was a lot more she didn't understand and probably never would, but that came with knowing Red Reddington.

Red ministered to her leg expertly, with care and precision. She watched as he did his work. He was careful not to hurt her, but it hurt nonetheless. His head was bent in concentration, and his able fingers probed at the healing flesh, now puckered and discolored by the retreating infection. She marveled at how deftly he moved. What could this man not do?

"What are you thinking Lizzie." He had taken to asking her that and she found it unnerving; most of the time he had a spooky habit of reading her thoughts. Without looking from his work, he asked her again. His voice had an even, almost hypnotic quality. She frowned. "I'm thinking of how this hurts like hell," she gritted. With this she moved her leg reflexively, disrupting his ministrations. "Lizzie..." he warned. "It will hurt worse if you keep moving." He held her leg firmly with his other hand to prove his point.

The cabin was small but well apportioned, with fresh white linens, rustic furniture, and a lovely little kitchen that took the morning sun well. It was stark in comparison to Red's usual posh surroundings, though. Liz did not question the seemingly endless stock of food and hospital-grade medical supplies, or the closet full of clothes, all in her size. Liz had learned not to question Red too much; questions only wrought more questions. She sighed. As charming as the little cabin was, it was as enigmatic as the man who owned it.

As for Red, he looked different, as well. Instead of his usual immaculate suits, he wore fresh-laundered khakis, crisp dress shirts, and sweater vests. L.L. Bean by Red Reddington. Surreal. So much of this was surreal, she thought.

Finally, he was done. He patted her leg gently indicating the completion of his task. Her leg was freshly dressed and it felt a little better. He looked up at her with that quirk of a smile that was standard for him, looking at her so deeply that she wondered what he saw. She licked her lips nervously.

"I have to go home, Red."

He put away his medical supplies systematically, ignoring her for the moment. "You don't," he said finally. He turned to her and extended a hand to help her off the table. Begrudgingly, she took it. "Cooper knows you are alive," he said simply. She looked up at him, startled by the admission. In the week she had been conscious, he had said very little despite her constant inquiries. "They found your blood at the scene." Red's voice softened, remembering that awful night. "The next day they were notified that you were wounded in a black ops mission, completely off the books even to them. Cooper is convinced that you are safe and by regular updates from an anonymous but very reliable contact inside the Bureau."

She blinked at him, disbelieving. "And Tom?"

Red frowned imperceptibly, and when he spoke, there was a trace of acid to his tone. "Tom believes you are on assignment, but he does not know you were injured."

"What about the surveillance video at the store," she asked. A shadow passed over his face before it slipped behind the usual mask. "Dembe was very thorough," he said simply.

So, no one knew where they were, she thought. Red's tracking chip had been removed at the end of their agreement, and this phony mission cover had been undoubtedly padded by Red's extensive list of resources both inside and outside the criminal world. It frightened her, the lengths he would go to where she was concerned. If what he said was true, she was free to go or stay; the choice was hers. Maybe that's what scared her the most.

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	5. Chapter 5

The next two days were spent in companionable silence. Red spent his mornings reading and cooking breakfast. Liz was amazed to find that he was an exceptional cook, yet she really shouldn't have been. She had yet to find anything that Red was not was not an expert at.

Liz could walk with a cane, and soon after the first snowfall, Red encouraged her to spend time outside. She found the snow in the mountains to be beautiful; it stayed pristine, unlike the black slush that would accumulate along the winter sidewalks back home.

_Home._ She should go home, she knew. Since the accusations and inquiries over a year ago, she and Tom had worked to repair their relationship with only partial success. There was a latent awkwardness between them that she knew in her heart might never be remedied. It might not be ideal, but it was still a marriage. Hers.

She put it out of her mind. Her leg was healing, but it seemed that other things were healing too, things about herself that she hadn't even realized were sick. She felt (for lack of a better word) clear.

And the whole time Red watched her. He provided, but did not patronize. He supported her, but he wasn't smothering. He gave her space, and that was quite unlike him. Liz needed that the most, though, and for the first time since she had known him, he seemed to respect that. A lot had happened over the past year, and she and Red had not parted on good terms. The situation with Tom remained unresolved. So much made so little sense, even a year later.

She walked outside onto the little patio and brushed the snow from one of the Adirondack chairs. She sat down, folding her good leg under her and pulled her sweater close. It was late. The sky was clear, and the stars danced like individual flames.

She felt rather than heard him. He crossed the patio to stand behind her and without a word draped a blanket across her shoulders. She accepted it gratefully. "I thought you were in bed," he said, a little bemused. "Are you having trouble sleeping Lizzie?"

"Not really," she said. "It's just so nice tonight."

Red smiled. "It certainly is." He handed her a steaming beverage from a table inside the door. It smelled of alcohol and butterscotch. "Do you mind?" He gestured to an empty chair nearby. She looked at him, a little confused. She couldn't remember him ever asking permission for anything, especially with her, and it caught her off guard. "Not at all," she said.

He brushed the snow from his own chair and sat down. Red sipped at his drink thoughtfully and looked into the clear night.

"How did you find me?" she asked quietly. Her memories of the shooting were still hazy, but she knew Red had materialized from thin air to save her life that night.

"You know how," he said simply. "You must have known."

She did know. There were times when she had felt his presence. She knew who/what it was instinctively, but it did not bother her and he never interfered. When the Tom situation had dissolved their working partnership, Red had slinked into the shadows. At the time, she had been content to leave him there.

"How long have you been following me," she asked.

He quirked his mouth. His Lizzie was always full of questions. "I prefer 'looking out for you,'" he said wryly. "It sounds much more civilized, don't you think?" He shot her a little half grin and his eyes sparkled.

"I don't need anyone looking out for me," she said flatly.

He smiled in the dark. _His Lizzie_. He took another sip of his drink, wrapping his fingers fully around the warm mug. "That's certainly true," he said quietly.

The night grew cold. Liz gathered the blanket around her and made her way back into the warmth of the small cabin. When she passed Red, she extended her hand to rest on his shoulder. "Thank you," Liz said simply. Red did not meet her gaze; his eyes were fixed on the tree line. "That isn't necessary," he said to the dark. She couldn't see his face, but his voice was tinged with emotion.

"Well thank you anyway," she said again, and smiled. Her hand trailed off his shoulder as she went inside.

The door behind him closed with a soft click, leaving him alone. He smiled softly behind is cup. "No Lizzie, thank you."

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**A/N: Considered ending this one here, but there's a little more yet. Thank you to everyone for the follows/favs/comments; they keep me motivated!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Despite what the writers would now have us believe (especially after 1x08), I am not convinced that these two are father/daughter or that they are even related. Therefore, my little fantasy continues. Unless I get a new wind, there's one more chapter. Thank you so much for reading.**

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It was late in the day before she came out of her bedroom. Her limp was almost gone now; she walked with the assistance of a cane for trips longer than to and from the kitchen, but was otherwise free. The pain was almost gone as well.

Red was uncharacteristically quiet. He read the paper in front of the fire, but did not turn to look at her. A glass of wine was beside him, mostly untouched. "Good morning," she said.

"Good afternoon," he corrected behind his paper. She could see only the back of his head and the flickering shadows of the fire through the newspaper. It must have been quite late in the day.

"Come sit with me Lizzie." He seemed preoccupied. He folded the paper and lay it on the table next to the couch. She complied, but Red's tone made her wary. He held out his hand to assist her in sitting as had been his custom since her injury. She was nearly healed now and didn't really need the assistance, but she took it anyway.

"Lizzie, we need to talk," he said as she settled on the couch near him. She looked at him intently. The light from the fire danced across his face in sharp shadows. He took a breath, and then looked her in the eyes. "Gina was right," he said. "I ordered the hit on the Russian defector at the Angel Station hotel."

She felt as if someone had cut off her air. So he had lied, just as she thought. Liz's eyes stung with unshed tears, and she looked away. If she couldn't stop from crying, she wouldn't let him see it.

"Lizzie, look at me. Look at me, Lizzie." He touched the side of her face and gently guided it. "I ordered the hit," he said into her eyes, "but Gina did not carry it out. Tom did."

She heard him through layers of betrayal like muddy water, layers of old hurts scabbed over in denial. "No," she said through her tears. "You're a liar. You said so yourself." He reached out to her, but she slapped his hand away. The fire crackled in the hearth between them, and all she wanted to do was get away. She moved to stand, but he grabbed her roughly, right over her scar.

"Tom was an operative working for one of my clients," he spat out deliberately. He turned her so she could not avoid looking at him. "I was not his handler but I organized the hit."

"No," she said weakly. "No." Her face was wet with tears, and he was hurting her. He had her by the shoulders so tightly she felt she would break.

"Tom pulled the trigger, Lizzie. Tom pulled the trigger with the gun in that box." His face was inches from her now, and his eyes were dark. A little shiver of fear ran up her spine. "You know it's the truth."

She expected him to release her then, but he didn't. Instead, he pulled her closer. She wouldn't look at him. "Lizzie," he said tenderly, "Lizzie I'm so sorry." He cradled her face in his hands, then folded her into his chest. They stood there in the light of the fire as he embraced her gingerly. "I've never lied to you Lizzie, and I never will."

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	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This is the end. Thank you so much for indulging my Red/Lizzie love. This ending evolved from several rewrites, so any thoughts are appreciated. If it is well received, I might save some of those cut scenes for a prologue. You have been wonderful!**

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He showed her everything. Sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire, they poured over the evidence, the surveillance tapes and Tom's dossier that was forwarded to Red upon sell of the contract. Then, Gina. Tom was intimate with her, that much was clear. Liz fixated on the last photo, a long-angle lens shot of the two of them kissing in a park.

Red watched with no small measure of pain as Lizzie poured over the minutiae of her husband's double life. If he could have spared her this, he would've; he would've done anything to keep from hurting her. She leaned back against the couch, letting the photos spill from her lap. "How could I have been so stupid," she murmured to no one. Red looked at her tenderly. "Intelligence is often overridden in matters of the heart," he said softly. He thought of how many seemingly stupid things he had done for just that reason. Just for her.

She looked up at him, suddenly indignant. "I'm a profiler, an expert in deception, of body language. I should have known." Her expression was so broken, so lost that it made him angry. "You did not know, Lizzie, because you did not want to know," he said quietly. "You are a gifted profiler and a capable agent, far better than the suits you work for would have you believe."

He leaned back against the couch next to her. The two of them sat amid the evidence of Tom's deception, their bodies nearly touching. "You did get one thing wrong, though," Red said thoughtfully. "You profiled me once as a man who has no real friends, who is at home with strangers and comfortable anywhere." You were right about the friends, Lizzie, but I am only at home, I am only comfortable when I'm with you."

His candor confused her as it usually did, but she could not deny the deepening color in her cheeks. There was so much she did not understand about this man, about his infatuation with her. She didn't call him on it like she usually did. She closed her eyes and put her head back on the couch.

"I was wrong about the friends, too," she said quietly. Then, she lay her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. He was warm. Red smelled incredible, exotic and masculine. She couldn't understand why she had not noticed before.

Red felt her head grow heavy and her breathing relax. Gently, he slid his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He let his hand brush under the hem of her shirt. His thumb made little circles there, and Lizzie hummed contentedly.

She turned into him, resting her hand on his chest. The steady beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest were like an anchor. She'd been spinning out of control, freefalling. This was the first time in a long time that Liz felt truly still.

The warm tether between them was so palpable Red would scarcely breath. Like a tenuous flame, he feared snuffing it out with the slightest movement or thought. He imagined a flow of energy where they touched, and the longer the contact, the more his desire for her, body and soul, deepened.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm sorry I called you a liar." In the firelight, he smiled. His hand went up to stroke the back of her arm. "I am a liar Lizzie, just not with you. Never with you." He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the faint scent of strawberries and jasmine.

Her eyes slipped closed. Everything in her life was a fraud. Her marriage, her family. Her job, to a certain extent. Nothing was real. Red, however, felt real.

"Will things ever be right again?"

He wanted to protect her, to take away her pain. He couldn't. Red couldn't take away his own.

"Probably not," he answered her quietly, "Not in the conventional sense." Red smoothed her hair. "But you will make a new right."

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End file.
